


a piano i play by ear

by duchamp



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:37:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3926587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchamp/pseuds/duchamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day he was Bond, all hard lines and sharp corners and finely pressed suits. Then the next he was James, all smiles and dry sarcasm and drinking coffee so strong it’s like oil in the morning. </p>
<p>Q can’t quite discern when the divide took place; he’s just very grateful it did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a piano i play by ear

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Игра на слух](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102544) by [hirasava](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hirasava/pseuds/hirasava)



Falling in love is not a conscious choice. _Falling,_ operative word. But when you’re looking at stacks of bodies, trust issues, post-traumatic stress, and a bundle of scars and hyper-vigilant nerves—well, there’s really no excuse.

Most people would take a step back, but Q is not most people. Any normal person would run, but Q is not normal.

Falling in love with a weapon is a conscious choice.

 

\--

 

Not to mention unprofessional as well.

However, consider: when James Bond walks into a room all the air seems to drain out thanks to nothing but his sheer intent. And when that attention is directed at you, good luck saying anything but an enthusiastic _yes_ and damn the consequences.

 

\--

 

One day he was Bond, all hard lines and sharp corners and finely pressed suits. Then the next he was James, all smiles and dry sarcasm and drinking coffee so strong it’s like oil in the morning.

Q can’t quite discern when the divide took place; he’s just very grateful it did.

 

\--

 

Perhaps it was when James demonstrated that thing he did with his tongue, that thing Q kept hearing about while James fucked a target’s daughter in Paris.

(Q was sitting in front of a monitor, bleary eyed with a cup of tea and an unopened book; his earpiece in and quite frankly entirely disinterested in the proceedings on the other end of the line. Then, between the sounds of zippers being unzipped and tongues meeting and teeth clashing there was a moan, and _do that again_ and _James_ and _please_ —leading to a sort of voyeuristic curiosity on Q’s part of exactly what James was doing in that moment to coax out the necessary information.)

 

\--

 

Perhaps it was when he told James his full name: [REDACTED.]

 

\--

 

Perhaps, just this: “I would like to stay the night, if that’s alright with you.”

 

\--

 

“This is not a good idea,” Q says.

“You tell me to stop and I will,” James says.

Then he puts his hands on Q’s hips and his mouth on Q’s cock and it’s really unfair, is what it is.

 

\--

 

The interns talk, because all interns will. It’s a competition, Q supposes, the gathering of office gossip.

Having the rumors get to him makes Q feel like he’s back in secondary school; but he does threaten to give James a cuff to the head if he comes any closer than polite talking distance at the office, anyway. Appearances, and all that. Of course, this merits nothing more than a smirk on James’ part and a dangerous glint pops into his eyes, as if he sees this as an argument to be won.

And when James has Q back at his flat he slams him up against the wall, and breaks the vase of lilies by the door. Water goes everywhere. The flowers and their stems haphazardly sprawl on the floor like the limp bodies James leaves behind in various countries.

Q gasps and James chuckles. “Couldn’t do this back at the office,” he says.

“James, I told you—”

“And, polite talking distance entails what exactly?” James asks with mock interest, pulling Q’s jumper up and over his head. He starts on the buttons of Q’s shirt next, but he goes slowly. His touch is light, teasing.

“At least six feet between you and I at all times,” Q says, trying to sound as serious as possible even when James’ head dips down to place openmouthed kisses at his neck.

The rate at which Q finds himself loosing this argument is absolutely fucking abysmal.

 

\--

 

Vesper is not a scar; she’s a festering wound that has never healed.

Of course, Q knows about her from James’ file: a bright woman, stunningly beautiful, loyal to a fault—loyal to a man who lied to her, who used her. A loyal woman who made mistakes that sunk into her back like claws and wouldn’t let her be; claws that carried her down into deep waters, where she drowned and died and destroyed James.

All that paperwork, all those files, and Q’s still not prepared for the day in June that marks her death—the day when James disappears, shuts himself in his flat, and drinks like a man trying to forget.

 

\--

 

“I’m not living up to the memory of a dead woman,” Q says. “I won’t.”

“I don’t want you to.” James’ eyes are on his coffee cup and there’s a fork in his hands, scrambled eggs on his plate. “I don’t expect you to, either.”

 

\--

 

James doesn’t do things in increments, he’s either in or he’s not. So, the ring isn’t entirely a surprise.

James places it on the dining room table after he comes home from China with a broken wrist and his pride barely injured. Q wordlessly takes it out of the small, velvet box and puts it on his finger.

“Does this mean—” As much as he puts on a good show, James still has his moments of insecurity. Q cuts him off, swallows the words with his lips. He brackets James’ face with his hands and kisses the breath out of him, feeling James’ satisfied smile against his skin.

It’s as much of an answer as Q can give.

 

\--

 

The first year is cotton and the second, paper.

On the first Q receives a dress shirt, impeccably tailored and hanging in his closet. On the second, James has gone to America to consult with Langley on a joint mission with MI6 that went completely south. (Translation: 007, please come over and do our dirty work. We hear so many adulatory things from the other side of the pond—like how your kill-count has reached into the double-digits and is still rapidly rising.)

Because James is a smug bastard, Q receives an envelope in the mail, with a plane ticket to New York. Q calls collect as revenge and can already hear the humor in James’ voice the second he picks up the phone. “It’s paper,” he laughs, “and I have tomorrow evening off.”

“Your ego’s going to kill you before a bullet ever will,” Q says. But he gets on the plane anyway with the promise of a night of James’ talented hands on his skin and room service, even if he has to take enough Xanax to put himself into a medically induced stupor.

 

\--

 

The definition of marriage is always up for debate, as is the definition of monogamy. And Q doesn’t over-think it, doesn’t even arch an eyebrow when James comes home with the corner of his mouth stained with lipstick and his collar reeking of perfume. It’s all just part of the job.

So Q will wipe the lipstick away with a damp washcloth and cover James’ body with his own until the scent of a woman’s perfume is replaced with the smell of sweat and sex, and it’s forgotten. Any evidence that James’ body isn’t Q’s, isn’t even really his own—that it’s government property—is gone.

All in a day’s work, all just part of the job.

 

\--

 

The worst part: when he hears James panic (though it’s rare), when he hears James get hurt (when he hears James let out one, muted agonized sob as he stiches a wound up in the middle of the fucking desert of all places), when he hears James fall. Et cetera. Grab a pen. The list goes on.

 

\--

 

Q has a remarkable ability to compartmentalize. It’s a true gift.

“We’ve lost 007. He’s gone off the grid.”

Sense memory—the cigar smoke and cologne clinging on James’ coat, an over-confident smile as he gets Q to put his work down and come to bed, James’ rumbling laugh, his lips closing around the rim of a wine-glass.

Q fists his hands into his pockets, and breathes deep. _He’s fine. He’s always fine. He always comes back._

 

\--

 

He comes back.

He comes back two months, one week, three days, and twenty hours from the moment when Q first heard— _“We’ve lost 007. He’s gone off the grid.”_

James is standing in their flat; alive and breathing, having let himself in through the front door like it was any other normal day.

And Q’s dinner drops to the floor and the ceramic shatters and the meatloaf is just laying there along with the carrots and spinach and he really should clean the mess up, but he’s in shock and being pushed back onto the couch by a pair of familiar and strong hands.

James looks rough (worse for wear would be putting it kindly) and sleep-weary. There are fresh stitches over his right eye. His chin is calloused and scarred and there are deep bruises on his neck. But he’s kissing Q, and saying “I’m sorry,” and “I’ll explain later,” and “I missed you.”

Q holds on, and doesn’t ask questions. Q holds on, and lets himself be held.

 

\--

 

“Go to sleep,” James says, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Quiet,” Q says, and buries his face in James’ chest. James falls asleep quickly; the promise of an explanation on his tongue, one that Q supposes he’ll have to wait until tomorrow to hear.

Q doesn’t sleep.

 

\--

 

One day he was James Bond, a whole person: an agent who’s tongue was as sharp as a knife and who’s hands were as hard as a hammer and who’s calculating stare hurt worse than a shot from a gun.

There was Bond and then there was James—two separate entities.

To be honest, Bond terrifies Q. He will never tell James this, even if he suspects James already knows.

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently decided to re-watch “Casino Royale” and “Skyfall” this weekend, and then this piece of utter self-indulgence happened. (Well, it happened after I tried to write a short one-shot from Bond’s perspective that just dissolved into something ridiculously long and aimless and… well it’s a work in progress. Hopefully I’ll post it someday.)
> 
> The title is inspired by Joan Didion because when it comes to Joan Didion I completely melt into a puddle on the floor, and I'm horrible at titles. 
> 
> This is unedited and seen by my eyes only, so any mistakes are entirely my own.


End file.
